When There is No More Room in Hell
by Catmoongirl
Summary: The virus still spread, there were still people out there, living but not, waiting in the shadows. Mello knew there were. He could hear them, the distant groans and inhuman shrieks in the night. AU; Matt and Mello in the zombie apocalypse genre.
1. Prologue: Abomination of Desolation

A/N: I've returned from the dead! How fitting for this story! I'm not quite sure how this idea grew to be so big, but I've worked incredibly hard on this piece. I've never written horror or suspense before, so I certainly hope I do the genre justice. This fanfiction is a collaboration between myself and two other users, sandaa and Demon Hiei's Girl (known as Striped-Tabby and Melissa, respectively, on Mangabullet), who have volunteered to do fanart for this story as I go.  
This story mutated much like a virus, from a simple joke about Matt and Mello as zombie hunters and a few rather tenative ideas, and now it's become something far greater.  
This is an AU of course, though I do try and make some parallels to the original Death Note story. Mello is pre-explosion, but post-Mafia (yes, part of my AU is timeline manipulation). At this point, I expect nearly all the canon characters to make an appearance of some sort (except for incredibly minor, nameless characters). Rated M for blood, gore, suspense, bad language, eventual explicit and non-explicit sexual situations, violence, and a general queasy and uneasy feeling in the pit of your stomach.

This fanfiction is dedicated to everyone who's been there for me over the past year in the MxM community, everyone who has ever commented, reviewed, and helped out. To Cat and Melissa, my partners in zombie crime. To Richard Matheson, for his brilliant writing and endless inspiration.  
And, as always please **read and review!**

Disclaimer: Death Note is property of Ohba and Obata. Quote is George Romero. Countless other works of fiction/film are alluded to in this fanfiction.

* * *

"When there is no more room in Hell,  
the dead will walk the Earth."  
- George Romero, Dawn of the Dead (1978)

Prologue - Abomination of Desolation

"Want anything from the shop?"

Mello looked up from his place on the couch, where he was fanning himself with an old magazine, leather vest unzipped and pulled back away from his chest. "Ice cream," was the blond's reply. Leather and flesh ran seamlessly together, moving and stretching as one as his back arched in a tired stretch.

On the television, the Los Angeles area was marked with a smiley face sun. The cheery weather girl reported near record highs for the rest of the week, marking the beginning of an unusually hot spring.

As Matt put on his shoes at the door, Mello leaned over the back of the couch to call back to him.

"Be careful!"

The redhead rolled his eyes, remarking that it was rather doubtful he'd get hurt walking down to the corner.

Before Mello had time to harp at him about being ungrateful, he had already zipped out the door with a quick wave goodbye.

He met the landlady at the entrance, where she was talking with one of the tenants living on the first floor. She smiled and waved at him as he passed, thanking him for paying the rent early this month.

Really, it had been Mello's money paying the rent, but he didn't stop to tell her that. Instead, he picked up a half gallon container of triple fudge ice cream and a carton of cigarettes at the convenience store on the corner. As the woman at the register rang him up, he scanned the rack of newspapers beside the counter.

"New Flu Strain to Blame for Death of Japanese Family", "Virus With Pandemic Potential Strikes First in Tokyo", and "WHO Warning: New Flu Not To Be Taken Lightly" were among the headlines, pictures of grieving family members and scientists in white lab coats plastered above the articles.

"The exact source of the virus has yet to be determined," came a report over the store's speaker system. "Nations all over the world are already taking extra precautions, tightening restrictions on imports and exports and culling herds of chicken, swine, and cattle that have been at risk of infection. Medical experts urge people to be aware of the signs and symptoms and do all they can to prevent infection and discourage the spread of this obviously devastating flu strain."

That was when Matt first noticed it. He suddenly became aware of the sluggish and sickly gloom that hung about the air as he walked back to the apartment. He dodged a man coughing into a handkerchief, determined to make sure he didn't _touch _him. He passed a woman sitting on a bus bench, slumped, her head lolling back on her shoulders. She seemed to be sleeping like that, face turned skyward, mouth slightly open, dark rings around her eyes. Matt felt his stomach lurch.

When he finally got home, he made sure to give his hands an overly thorough washing before dinner.

* * *

The carton of triple fudge was empty by next week, around the same time two more families outside of Tokyo were reported dead within days of being diagnosed with the new, super virulent flu strain. A day later, cases were already popping up along the west coast of the US.

The first case reported was a Washington accountant who died within 24 hours of exhibiting symptoms. The second was a little girl in northern California whose "heroic struggle" against the disease was aired all over national news channels, allowing the entire country to watch, in sympathy and morbid fascination, as the child slowly died on their television screens.

There was no rhyme or reason to the disease, only the unavoidable fact that the virus, so far, had a 0% survival rate. No one who had gotten ill had gotten better, yet. They all either died, or just hung precariously between life and death, waiting with bloodshot eyes and lifeless, aching limbs, while doctors and scientists tripped over their own feet searching for "how" and "why" and "what".

Fatigue, nausea, bloodshot eyes, aching muscles, and vomiting (specifically the vomiting of blood). They were all grounds for a virtual death sentence.

"A new update in the investigation of the Japanese flu virus from the World Health Organization." Matt peeked his head out of the bathroom at the words coming from the television, mouth full of toothpaste foam and a toothbrush in hand. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Mello sit up straighter, hugging the pillow he had curled his arms around a little tighter to his chest. "Officials explain that the lack of effective vaccinations is due to the the strain's completely unpredicted appearance. They have, however, managed to trace the virus back to infected and improperly handled fish that were sold in Japanese and American markets. National Influenza Centers are scrambling to collect specimens to isolate and analyze." Mello exchanged weary glances with the redhead from his spot on the couch. "Potentially infected seafood is currently being taken off the market and trade of seafood has halted completely. The Department of Health and Human Services urges everyone to thoroughly cook all meat and seafood before consumption and to avoid going out if they feel ill."

Matt scoffed and hurriedly wiped up the bit of foam that dribbled down his chin before spitting into the sink.

"Great detective work," he snapped. "Now lets see them turn all that talk into a vaccine."

He splashed some water on his face and scrubbed roughly at his skin, his heart sinking as he listened to Mello rummaging through their fridge and throwing out any and all fish products they had.

* * *

Matt stared at the article on the front page of the paper, perplexed. Mello watched him for a few moments, eyes darting between the paper on the kitchen table and the redhead's far off expression.

"Something interesting?" he asked, scooping up another forkful of hash browns.

Potatoes, potatoes, _potatoes_. That's all there ever seemed to be anymore. The pickings were already incredibly slim at the supermarket, but now, there was virtually no meat or poultry left. And without meat and poultry, milk and eggs became increasingly difficult to find.

Mello thought he might go mad if he had to eat nothing but potatoes for the rest of his life.

"What do you think could have happened to them?" the man beside him finally asked, looking up.

"Happened to who?"

"Them," Matt repeated, tilting the paper towards Mello and jabbing a finger at the headline.

_Two bodies of flu victims missing from morgue; graves of others disturbed. _

"Well, I expect they died, Matt," the blond said slowly, eyes straying to another article about a string of violent muggings and homicides occurring around Tokyo.

"Not _that!_" Matt exclaimed. "I mean...where the hell did they go? Who would want to just _take _them?"

Mello raised one slim eyebrow. "Who said anyone took them?" he teased.

Matt gave him a tired look and rolled his eyes. "Dead bodies don't just get up and walk away, you know."

Mello smiled a little, the most he had managed in what felt like years. "They do in horror movies."

* * *

"This disease is a punishment from God!" The woman on the television screen looked straight into the camera, her face saturated with color, eyes brimming with angry tears. "The Lord has finally decided to pass judgement on our sinful society! If you are faithful, if you repent, He will save you!"

Mello's fingers jerked back from his rosary as if it had burned him. He hadn't even realized he had been fiddling with it.

Matt gave him a sidelong look from the other end of the couch, biting his lip nervously.

"What about my daughter?!" a woman off-screen shrieked. The camera swiveled wildly to zoom in on her, standing up among the talk show audience. In her hands, she clutched a photo and a teddy bear with a bright yellow ribbon around it's neck. "She was only two years old!" she shouted, tears streaming down her cheeks. "What did she do to deserve to die?! Why did your god punish her?!" She choked on a whimper and seemed to waver. And then she leaned forward again, shaking. "_She was just a little girl!_"

"Mello," Matt said quietly beside him. "Hey, Mello? Mind if play Halo for awhile?"

"Yeah," the blond said, unsteadily, trying to shake the horrible feeling building in his stomach. "Yeah, go ahead."

A riot was building up in the audience before Matt stole the remote away and pressed the input button, switching the display to the start-up screen from Matt's Xbox.

* * *

"What did you do? Buy up every box in the store?" Mello joked when Matt came through the front door, his arms loaded up with plastic bags full of chocolate and cigarettes.

Matt tried to close the door with his foot, panting from heat and exertion. "Could you help me here? Your damn chocolate is fucking heavy."

The blond closed the door for him and took a couple of the bags from his arms. "Seriously, though, why do we have enough chocolate here to put me in a diabetic coma?"

"They're closing the shop."

Mello blinked and paused as Matt breezed past him towards the bedroom to try and store his cigarettes anywhere they would fit. "What? Why?"

An irritated sigh came from inside the bedroom closet. "I don't know, Mello," he said sarcastically. "Probably because the governor called in the National Guard and now the health department has actual guns to back their fucking quarantines up?"

"And you only thought to get fucking cigarettes?!" Mello said, feeling how Matt's tone helped to fuel his own frustration. "Fuck, Matt, why didn't you go out and actually get us some real food?!"

Matt cursed, kicking the closet door sharply as he wheeled around. "For Christ's sake, Mello!" he shouted, eyes bright with anger. "If you want to go out there and try and fight through all the rest of the people grabbing and snatching at everything they can, be my guest!" He gave him the finger before storming past him and out into the living room.

Mello stood, rooted to the spot, eyes wide, hands tight around plastic handles.

When he finally dared to approach him again, he found the redhead curled up stiffly on the couch, eyes locked on his PSP.

"Matt, I'm-"

"There's no more food left, anyway." Matt looked up at him, and there was real regret in his gaze. "There's nothing left. People are rioting on the streets. All the stores are closing up." He swallowed and his face twitched as if it was too difficult to look his friend in the eye, so he turned them back down to his game. "They're delivering rations now. Every week. No meat, no fish."

Mello stood, silent, blinking. He shuffled forward a few steps and dropped the bag in his hands. It hit the floor with a soft crinkle. When Matt spoke again, it seemed to come from somewhere far away, some place where he would have been able to fully handle what Matt was telling him, some place where he wouldn't have felt so completely alone.

"They're instituting a curfew. Everyone off the street by dusk. We'll be cooped up in here all the time..."

He was vaguely aware of Matt trailing off as the redhead seemed to realize where it was Mello was staring off into, that he wasn't actually watching the television.

He gasped, startled, as Matt was suddenly all around him, arms wrapped tightly around his waist and shoulders, hugging him with a near crushing (and somehow comforting) grip. "We can do this, Mello," he said, voice cracking. "Together, we'll make it. We always have."

The blond touched the hand at his hip, light at first, then squeezing tightly, and refused to let go.

* * *

Everything came to a screeching halt the next morning, when an urgent news report cut in during the normal weather report, showing grainy, unsteady footage of a female news anchor, eyes wide and her face completely drained of color.

"...it seems that the bodies of the deceased have..." The woman swallowed and mouthed like a beached fish for a moment. Behind her was a dilapidated house, with broken windows and resting crooked on it's hinges. "Have...have...have started to move and walk...on their own!" Her voice raised in pitch as she went on, ending in a frantic squeak. Behind her, they could see something lumbering clumsily in the doorway of the house, like the sort of slow, stumbling undead creatures that Hollywood adored.

And then it sprang forward, quick and calculated and unnaturally strong, and the camera spun through the air. It landed with a heavy clunk to the ground, catching the struggling shadows of the journalist as she screamed and shrieked before the transmission abruptly cut off.

The disappearing bodies suddenly made sense, and all the city quarantines went unchallenged after that. All bodies were cremated, schools were closed, people stopped going to work and just _watched._

Mello found himself crying silently as the news reporters hastily tried to keep their composure.

This was life now.

This was Hell.


	2. The Fall

A/N: For those of you who made it this far, congrats! This was actually the first bit of this story ever written, the thing that spawned it all. Thanks again to Cat and Melissa for all their input and help for this chapter. Enjoy! **Please read and review!**

Disclaimer: Death Note is property of Ohba and Obata. Quote belongs to Richard Matheson

* * *

"The world's gone mad, [Robert] thought. The dead walk about and I think nothing of it.  
The return of corpses has become trivial in import. How quickly one accepts the incredible if only one sees it." - Richard Matheson, I Am Legend

Chapter 1 - The Fall

Mello awoke in the middle of the night to humid air bearing heavily down on him and muffled thumps and groans coming from down the hallway. He was slow to move, wanting to avoid the unpleasant sensation of sweaty sheets peeling away from sticky skin. Eventually though, he rolled over onto his side, felt the thick fog of heat send his head into a tail spin, waited a few moments for the room to slide back into focus.

Across the room, Matt's bed was empty.

His DS lay near the corner of his bed amidst the rumpled sheets, the screen still alight and casting a ghostly glow on the ceiling. A cheerful little melody was looping quietly over the speakers.

Down the hall, there was another groan, the sounds of something splashing, thick and heavy. Outside, the night was absolutely still.

A heavy breath caught in Mello's throat. The cold that flooded his veins brought him no comfort from the smothering heat.

'No, no, _no_,' he thought to himself. 'We've been so careful. We've done everything we could. It can't...not now...not _Matt_.'

Slowly, carefully, he rose from the bed and padded across the bedroom, jumping momentarily at the sight of his own shadow cast against the wall, gaunt and skeletal in the unearthly light shining from the empty bed. His silhouette looked starved, emaciated...dead. It danced in wild and serpentine motions before his eyes, stretching this way and that like some sort of hellish Fun House mirror.

With sharp, rapid breaths, he strode back across the room and flipped the game system over, angrily pressing the lit screen into the mattress.

The specter was gone, but now the room was plunged into darkness.

He groped along the wall towards the door, stubbing his toe painfully on the dresser along the way. He stumbled to a halt, leaning down to feel frantically at the digit, checking for broken skin.

When he was finally satisfied that his toe was uninjured, he finally passed from the bedroom to the hallway.

At the end of the hall, the bathroom door was ajar, letting a strip of bright florescent light stretch out across the wooden floor. He could make out the sound of ragged breaths and horrible retching noises.

The icy stone in the pit of his stomach turned into a sharp, stabbing pain through his entire torso. He wanted to run back to his bed, pull the sheets over his head, and wait for this horrible nightmare to be over.

But there was no waking up from this nightmare, this terrifying sight laid out before him under the painfully bright light of the bathroom ceiling lamp.

Matt clung desperately to the porcelain of the toilet with white-knuckled and sweaty hands, as if the linoleum was going to suck him into an endless abyss. His legs sprawled haphazardly beneath him, as if he hadn't had enough time to kneel properly before collapsing against the toilet. His shoulders trembled and bucked with each dry heave and his damp shirt hung off of him.

It was as if he were wasting away.

Mello realized too late that he had let out a strangled cry, clamping a hand over his mouth. Every bit of heat rushed from his body as his heart plummeted into a frigid pit of anguish.

The dry heaves finally slowed and Matt slid and lurched against the toilet, the stripes of his shirt moving like a second skin as the saturated fabric plastered itself against his shoulders with sweat. He turned towards the door, ungainly and slow, arms and legs seemingly too heavy for him to maneuver. Blood and bile hung from his bottom lip, dripping down his chin, orange and brown and red sickeningly sharp against sallow skin.

And he looked back and met Mello's gaze with half-lidded and haggard eyes.

_I'm sorry_, those eyes said. _I'm so, so sorry_.

The blond stumbled backwards, sinking down against the opposite wall, and sobbed.

* * *

Mello started sleeping on the couch after that. It was with a sense of failure that Mello finally opened up their previously untouched emergency kit gathering dust above the fridge and started wearing gloves and surgical masks around the house.

Matt slept during most of the day; Mello could barely keep him awake long enough to eat. And even when he did manage to get him to eat, the redhead rarely held it down for more than an hour. Each day, Matt's health worsened, his cheeks sunk in a little further and his ribs stuck out a bit more prominently above his abdomen. His hair turned drab and greasy, sticking together in thick clumps against his scalp.

Every day for a week, his fever kept going up and up and up. 100º F, 101.4º F, 102º F.

As Mello slowly poured water into his friend's waiting mouth each morning, afternoon, and evening, he would eye the phone sitting on the nightstand.

He knew he should call a doctor, that soup and cold cloths could only go so far.

Were there even any doctors to go to anymore? If he called to get a hold of a doctor, they'd notify the police, who would send the CDC straight to their door. And they would haul Matt away, strapped to a gurney, probably quarantine him in some lab as he slowly suffered and died.

And then they would burn the corpse. They burned all the corpses. It was the law now, had been since they day they started enforcing curfews in towns with quarantined districts.

And even with all of that enforcement, he thought with a frustration that burned red hot in his belly, it still spread, there were still people out there, living but not, waiting in the shadows. He knew there were. He could hear them, the distant groans and inhuman shrieks in the night. Their numbers were few, according to vague and rather sketchy news reports, but a few could easily become hundreds, thousands...

Mello shuddered and rubbed lightly at Matt's throat to help him swallow, feeling the heat of his fever through the rubber gloves.

"There you go, drink up" he murmured, mostly to himself with a compassion and tenderness that he couldn't feel, voice too soft and soothing to hold any real meaning in it.

Just before he left, Matt's eyes opened just a crack, looked up in silent thanks, blinked once, twice, and then closed again. Each day they were less and less brown and more and more..._nothing_. Not quite grey, not quite black, not quite any color at all. It was the color of dwindling sanity, diminishing resolution, a rapidly approaching end.

Nothing.

No memories, no passion, no fight.

Then, the day came when the color in Matt's eyes dulled so far, there was not even a flicker of recognition in them. When Mello leaned over to brush the moist and matted hair out of his eyes, he would stare up in fear and confusion at the strange face above him, the alien being with the round, protruding mouth and cold, rubbery hands. He would open and close his mouth soundlessly, as if he were calling for help, chapped and cracked lips parting and pressing uselessly together, hands fisting feebly in the sheets.

That was the point that Mello forgot what it was he was doing, why he was doing it. It was no longer Matt sleeping in that bed. It was just a phantom of the past, a frail image of something he couldn't seem to recall. The days of normalcy were nothing more than a dream, hovering just out of reach whenever he hung on the border between sleeping and waking.

Because he didn't do anything even remotely resembling sleep those days. Instead, he would lay awake at night, staring up at the living room ceiling, listening to Matt's labored breaths and wet-sounding coughs. The rhythm of those strained, inhales and the unproductive hacking cough slowly lulled him into a fitful quasi-slumber, a sleep that never really came completely over him, where he would lie in darkness, mind still painfully aware of the reality waiting on the other side of his eyelids.

It was the stillness that would rouse him, the sound of absolute quiet, of Matt sound asleep.

Asleep, or...

Mello reached under his pillow, feeling the cool metal of the handgun he kept there. He gripped the weapon tightly, ready, _waiting_.

* * *

When a thump and scuffling started coming from behind the bedroom door, Mello had no time to grab his handgun to defend himself. He was in the kitchen when the bone-chilling noises began, staring down at wilting lettuce and moldy carrots (it was all they had left in the emergency rations they received that week).

Even so, he thought it was safer this way, at high noon, where he could see clearly what it was he was up against.

The door handle rattled for a few moments before the door slowly creaked open. Mello clutched the kitchen knife resting beside the cutting board. It would be messier than he ever wanted, and he would probably end up soaked in blood from it, but...

If there was even a glimmer of humanity left in those eyes, then he knew, deep down, Matt would understand.

One heavy step, then two, sounded from behind him. He wheeled around, the sharp movement stiff and sudden.

Matt leaned against the doorframe across the apartment, head bowed, shoulders hunched. His body shook with the efforts of his breath, knees bent in at awkward angles.

Slowly, deceptively slow, his head rose and his eyes met Mello's, shaded by a matted fringe of auburn hair, sunken against pale skin. They burned with a hungry aggression, a deep desperation that had his hands clenching the wood beneath his palms, eager to makes his way across the room on his weak and wobbling limbs.

"Matt," Mello said, voice low and quiet. Threatening and authoritative at the same time. "Matt, it's me, it's Mello."

The redhead's weight shifted forward, as if he were about to topple over, but then his leg came out, foot planting itself on the floor in an awkward step. His ankles were frail enough to snap like twigs beneath his unsteady weight.

"Matt-!"

Another step, the younger man loped and weaved forward, step by slow step, clumsy, drunkenly. Mello's voice caught and stuck somewhere low in his throat. A deep noise rumbled in Matt's chest, came out of his mouth like a wheeze, grating, like nails on a chalkboard.

The hairs on the back of Mello's neck stood up on end. His fingers closed ever tighter around the knife on the counter behind him.

Matt was so close, so close, Mello could smell the blood and vomit on his breath, could see the pinpricks of moisture beading on his forehead, could hear the almost mechanical croaking of his lungs in his chest. The redhead was so near to him, it would take nothing more than reaching out with that bony arm...

And that's exactly what happened. Matt's arm shot out, fast, but fast enough for Mello to track.

But his resolve still failed him.

The hand around the kitchen knife spasmed at the look in Matt's eyes, fingers jerked and dropped it onto the countertop with a broken noise of surprise. Now Matt had him, helpless, in his grasp.

For a moment, he considered pleading, trying to tap into the human that must be somewhere deep inside the gamer's mind. The next moment, he considered screaming, as loud and as long as he could. Someone had to come, someone must still be alive outside of their apartment, though they hadn't heard a single word from anyone for days.

And Matt gripped Mello's shoulders, fingers pressing mercilessly into flesh, and yanked him forward.

Their foreheads knocked painfully together and everything suddenly went still.

Mello froze, rooted in place, waiting for Matt to duck his head and rip out his esophagus, to sink his teeth into his skull and slurp out his brains, to...to...

Matt was smiling at him. Weak and feeble, but a smile, nonetheless. There was light in his eyes.

The forehead pressed against his was pleasantly warm, drastically cooler than the unbearable heat it had been yesterday evening.

It took a few moments for this fact to register in Mello's mind, after his eyes stopped stealing glances at the kitchen knife only a few feet away, after he realized that Matt wasn't making any movements at all.

The fever had broken.

"I'm really thirsty," the redhead said hoarsely, throat sticky and parched.

Mello broke down for a second time, crying tears of joy into Matt's hair as he dragged the younger man into a tight hug and refused to let go for a long, long time.

* * *

"Do you think we should?"

Mello looked up from his plate of food, gazing across the couch at Matt, who was looking expectantly back. "Should we what?"

Matt shrugged, as if the answer were of no real consequence to him. He picked up one of his cornmeal cakes on his fork. "Evacuate, like everyone else." He stretched across the length of the couch and deposited the cake onto Mello's plate (which, he noticed despite all of Mello's insistence otherwise, had slightly less food on it). "From what the landlady told us today, there's only about three or four other rooms with people in 'em. That family next door, the elderly couple above us, and that guy who lives downstairs."

On the television, Kiyomi Takada was going through the daily emergency response and preparation segment, who to call if you notice anyone with suspicious symptoms, how to handle your child's accidental cuts and scrapes, and as an added bonus, an announcement that the weekly rations were going to become biweekly due to food shortages and the price of gasoline taking a slight jump to seven dollars a gallon.

Mello gave Matt a reproaching look, taking the cornmeal cake and replacing it next to the redhead's rather scrawny looking soybeans. "Stop that, you've got to gain back that weight. I don't care what you do or don't like to eat."

Matt made a disgusted face. "It's like being a bloody vegan," he griped, drawing his legs up onto the couch to sit cross legged. "I've never wanted a fucking hamburger so badly in my life." He suddenly perked up and turned his body towards the older man beside him, shoving a forkful of instant potatoes into his mouth. "You know," he began, slightly garbled around the mouthful of potatoes. "That guy on the first floor said he knows a guy who runs the rations route who could smuggle some meat into our delivery."

"No," Mello said flatly. His tone left no room for negotiation.

Matt groaned, staring down at his food as if those dry potatoes had just broken his heart. "Then, let's just move already! I promise I'm all better now. I hear they've still got restaurants open in New York, that people are still allowed to walk around freely on the streets during the day."

Mello's fingers slowly tightened around his fork. He stabbed savagely at his limp lettuce. "Yes, and two weeks ago, you could have said the same for LA. We've got food, water, and electricity. It's not like we can really afford to be picky these days."

_These days_. He hated the way that sounded, as if things were never going to get any better or worse.

He knew what New York really was. It was a sort of soothing propaganda, a way to make the rest of the country to wait patiently while the government figured out who the fuck to blame for all of this.

Matt had stopped eating, looking enraged. "_That's_ your reason? You want to stay here because it's _tolerable_?" His fork clattered against his plate as he put it down forcefully on the coffee table. "Fucking hell, Mello, I don't want to have to _tolerate_ anything! I want to _live_!"

The handle of the fork began to bend under the pressure of Mello's grip. "We can't even afford the gas. We'd have nothing left for a place to stay. If even one person in New York became infected, we'd have no shelter and no money. What you're suggesting is suicide."

"And this isn't?!" Matt was on his feet, gesturing sharply at the tightly sealed window. Outside, the sun still pierced through a thin covering of smoky wisps of clouds, though abandoned buildings and empty windows stayed covered by shadows. "More than half of this place is shut down! It's dead! There's nothing here! Who knows if there will even been food delivered next month! And what if they quarantine us too?! What then?!"

The shattering of ceramic punctuated the last of Matt's shouts as Mello threw his plate down in a rage. It lay in pieces with his food on the floor.

"I almost fucking lost you, Matt!" he bellowed, face flooded with red. "Do you know how hard it is to tell yourself you might have to fucking kill your best friend and still try to keep hope?! Every single fucking day I had to be ready for that! If I woke up one morning and you were-!" His voice suddenly cracked and his eyes went wide with the images that came, unbidden, into his mind. Images of a fate that they had so narrowly avoided. "If you were...if you were..." He just couldn't say it. Even the thought was too much for him to bear. He began to shake uncontrollably, staring down at his hands clenched into fists against his thighs.

"Oh fuck," Matt breathed. "Oh, fuck, Mello, I didn't-" He took a step forward, hands stretched outwards uneasily. "I didn't mean to...I'm _sorry_."

He reached out and pulled the blond into his arms. Mello clung to him, dragged them both to their knees on the hard wood floor, shook with frustration and anger and fear, but not a single sound escaped him, not a single tear was shed. The only sobbing came from the apartment next door, where a woman quietly tried to soothe her frightened child.

After he had finally stopped shaking, Mello pulled at the front of Matt's shirt, twisted his hands in the material, his head bowed against the younger man's sternum. "Don't you dare do that to me again," he snapped angrily. "Don't you ever make me that fucking scared about you."

There was no room for those weaknesses anymore. Only the strong survived, only the strong maintained their humanity.

* * *

Kiyomi Takada found herself promoted to a national news station on the east coast a few days later. She was heralded as a brilliant journalist, with an uncanny ability to sniff out a story quicker than anyone else. On her first day on the job, she wished her former coworkers good luck in continuing to bring up-to-date and accurate reporting to the people remaining in the Los Angeles area.

Shortly after that, it became clear that luck would not be with them.

As Matt and Mello sat and watched their morning updates, the new anchor began to grow pale, the rhythm of her speech became awkward and halting, her hands trembled around the papers on the news desk in front of her.

"I-it is reported that this month th-the price of gas will...will be..." She trailed off, sweating under the bright studio lights

Then, without warning, she vomited all down her front and collapsed heavily onto the desk.

The cameras turned off and they never came back on.

Things seemed to go downhill from there and Mello sometimes found himself wishing he had listened to Matt.

The power was the next thing to go, the emergency generator kicking in automatically shortly afterwards, providing lighting only to the hallway outside the apartment door and a weak stream of air to come through the vents.

The phoneline was dead, so calling the landlady was impossible, cellphone service had all but disappeared, and Mello wouldn't even let him near the front door anymore.

Words were only spoken in whispers from that point on. Their eyes always seemed cast towards the floor, too afraid to look up and see the world around them crumbling to the ground.

The world, however, would not allow them to remain ignorant forever.

When the little girl next door started crying loudly in the middle of the night, Mello thought she had simply woken up from a nightmare. But then he heard her mother's voice as well, praying frantically under her breath.

"Oh, God, please," came the distraught voice through the wall. "Please, save us. Have mercy, Lord!"

There was a dragging noise as well, the sound of hands scratching at wood and frustrated growls.

Mello's heart jolted in his chest, as if he had just been electrocuted, and he shot up in bed. Matt was standing beside the bedroom door, pressed to the wall, shotgun in hand. His eyes were wide in fear, mouth pressed into a grim line.

Mello opened his mouth to ask what was happening, but Matt pressed a finger to his own lips, the gesture sharply ordering him to keep quiet. The blond grabbed his handgun from the nightstand, the other hand clutching at his rosary as the whispered prayers became frenzied pleas.

"Please, no!" the woman begged, voiced laced with the sound of splintering wood. "Charles, please! It's me, it's your wife!" A violent snap and then screaming, high-pitched and terrified.

Thinking he'd be sick, Mello was torn between vigilance and pressing his pillow over his head to block out the noise.

And then...

"Daddy, don't! Stop! It hurts!"

Mello threw up into his mouth, pressing his hand to his lips and forcing himself to swallow it down. The shock of it all finally seemed to overload his system, stuffing cotton into his ears and closing out the little girl's shrieks. Across the room, he saw Matt's shoulders shaking with quiet sobs, face twisted in anguish, teeth biting viciously into his lower lip to hold back any noises threatening to escape.

As he slowly came down from the adrenaline spike, sound gradually petered back into Mello's ears. He couldn't tell how long it had been, how much time had passed since the girl had finally stopped making noise, but there wasn't much time to think about it. The scratching noise was now at their front door. Scratching became rattling, rattling became banging. It may have been dead, but it still had the brain of a human, a human that learned from trial and error. And somehow, _somehow_ it managed to rip the doorknob off and snap the chain lock as it barged into the apartment. Mello heard the heavy thunk and the metallic clinking of broken links hitting the floor.

His ears, all he could rely on were his ears. He was groping blindly as he fought down the panic threatening to overtake him, scrambling quietly towards the bedroom door where Matt motioned to be ready to back him up.

The blond almost insisted that he should be the one to take the lead, but it really didn't seem like the appropriate moment to have that argument.

Not when there was the sound of uneven footfalls outside their door, a disconcerting rhythm of dragging and snarling as it sniffed out the two men hiding close by.

Matt tensed, finger ready on the trigger as he slowly raised the gun. Mello followed suit. It was right outside the door. They couldn't afford to hesitate.

And that handful of milliseconds seemed to hang between them, suspended by bated breaths and bleak realizations. Between heartbeats, a mutual understanding passed between the two of them, that one false step could spell death.

Matt moved.

He flung the door open with a sharp kick. There was a loud _crack_ as it hit something solid on the other side and, without waiting even a moment, the redhead jumped into the hall and fired.

There was a split-second delay as Mello's mind tried to rapidly register what was happening, but it still wasn't enough to prevent him from pausing as he realized that the apartment was eerily quiet.

He blinked rapidly, trying to tell his feet to move, that he was supposed to be backup. But...

He couldn't even hear anything _breathing_.

"M...Matt?" he hazarded in a whisper.

No response.

"Matt?" he called, just a little louder, though he could barely hear himself over the sound of blood roaring in his ears. He edged closer to the door, which had slowly swung back until it rest slightly ajar.

Oh, God...had he...was he dead?

_Say something, you bastard_! _I told you not to do this to me again!_

No response. He jumped as he heard a floorboard creak.

The door swung open.

Mello leapt back with a shout, swiftly lifting his arm to aim at the doorway.

"Calm down, it's okay! It's me!"

Matt stood in the doorway, shirt and face splattered with blood, dark and thick against his sun-deprived flesh. His arms were raised slightly in surrender, shotgun still in his grasp.

"Holy fuck, you could at least give me some warning!" Mello snapped in an angry breath. He panted as if he had just run a thousand miles, heart throbbing between his ribs.

"He didn't even touch me. Got him in the back of the head." Matt swallowed. "Could you...could you just get this fucking shirt off me?"

Mello grabbed the emergency kit and hurriedly put on a pair of rubber gloves before peeling Matt's shirt off and using antibacterial wipes and gel to clean his face and the remnants of blood that had seeped through the fabric.

"Shit," the redhead gasped, shaking under his friend's hands. "Shit, shit, shit. I...I just shot him. I wasn't even fucking thinking about it. He was someone's _father_ for Christ's sake!"

"You did what you had to," Mello responded as he scrubbed at a streak of blood on Matt's goggles, though he didn't sound very convincing. "They're not human."

He couldn't even manage to convince himself of that.

"We've got to burn him," Matt said as he pulled a clean shirt over his head. "We can't stay here anymore. We have to torch the whole building."

For the first time, Mello seemed to agree, already busy pulling down the rest of their firearms from the top closet shelf (souvenirs of his Mafia days) and his only remaining box of chocolate bars as Matt pocketed the packs of cigarettes hidden under his mattress. The emergency supplies, their remaining rations, ammunition, firearms, chocolate, and games were packed into a large duffel bag. Matt's main laptop was grabbed as an afterthought.

They pulled out the bottles of canola oil from the kitchen cupboards and doused the man's body with it. Matt turned away at one point and gagged as he hunched by the wall, sticking his hand out to support himself, unable to continue. Even Mello found himself trying his hardest to avoid the man's eyes as they stared up at him. His eyes drifted somewhere between feral and tame. They were the eyes of a dead man, and yet those dilated pupils reminded Mello far too much of roadkill festering in the sun, wide and unseeing.

After they were finished, they made their way out of the apartment and into the hall, guns raised and ready. Above their heads, the emergency generator was beginning to show some wear, lights flickering and creating a horrifying sort of strobe effect in the narrow corridor. The door of the next apartment down creaked back and forth on it's hinges. A bloody handprint was streaked across the front. Large drops of red and disturbing little chunks created a path leading back to their feet.

They went upstairs first. The lighting was even worse up there, creating large patches of shadows that made the dusty apartment doors appear as if they were slowly drifting open.

The elderly couple had starved to death, though it was so easy to believe they were simply sleeping when the two found them together in their bed. They rummaged through the kitchen and bathroom and found toilet bowl cleaner and more cooking oil. Matt respectfully drew up the sheets over the couple's heads before they poured the stuff around their bed and through the rest of the apartment.

On the first floor, the heavy locks on all the entrances to the building were still intact. Nothing had gotten in or out through there.

The landlady and the only other remaining tenant were also dead. Both of them had a light frothing of blood on their lips, so Mello shot both of them once through the temple. They took what remained of the unopened food and water (and a bottle of brandy they found in the man's fridge) in their rooms and shoved it into the duffel bag.

Mello could only manage to find drain cleaner in the landlady's apartment. The fumes made him dizzy as he poured it over the old woman, disgusted by the huge angry splotches it left on the corpse.

And then, as he tilted the container back, something sailed up at him and splashed against his face.

He screamed raggedly as a searing pain erupted across the left half of his face, but immediately cut himself off, hissing and snarling through gritted teeth instead. The pain dripped, _dripped_ a little lower, halfway down his cheek as he stumbled towards the apartment door, sight completely useless in his left eye.

Matt came faster than Mello expected. He was actually aiming to shoot at the blond before he realized what was going on. He lowered Mello to the floor out in the hall, cradling the back of his head with his hand, and flushed his skin and face with the bottled water, until his hair was sopping wet. He moaned quietly as Matt applied a gauze bandage, hands twitching with the urge to clutch at his face.

Matt tried not to let it show, but he began to feel horribly cornered. Without Mello's eyes, he was left without backup. He was essentially on his own.

"Come on," he urged, as firmly as possible. "You've got to get up. We have to leave now."

Matt helped Mello to his feet and slung the duffel bag over his shoulder. Even with his reduced depth perception, Mello didn't need much help, though Matt felt his attention hopelessly torn between his friend and his own surroundings.

He never imagined that the place he had once called home would turn on him, so suddenly and so violently.

Outside, the street was deserted. Cars sat empty on the side of the road. One lone streetlight remained lit.

Somewhere, far off, a screeching echoed through the night.

Mello was breathing heavily beside him, fingers prodding at his face around the bandage.

Matt opened the brandy, dumped some of the alcohol onto the ground, and, ripping half of his own shirt sleeve off, stuffed the striped fabric into neck of the bottle.

As he pulled his lighter out of his pocket, he wondered if the people inside that building had known how it would end, if they knew they were slowly wasting away. He wondered how that woman managed to comfort her child as her father slowly died, and then suddenly rose up again with murder and bloodlust in his gaze.

"Mello..." he said softly, lighting the fabric with tears in the corners of his eyes. "Say a prayer or something..."

But Mello stayed silent and Matt had to force himself to chuck the bottle through the window of their old home, to watch as the flames climbed and flickered in the window and devoured the traces of their old life.

They did not stay to watch. Others were going to come soon, drawn by the flames, just like moths.

Just like mindless insects.

So the two of them abandoned the empty comfort of the firelight and pushed forward into the darkness. In the stifling uneasiness, Mello took Matt's hand and squeezed it tightly. Only then did Matt allow himself to cry.

Secretly, Mello began to wonder if there really was a God.


	3. Genesis

A/N: This chapter was really a lot of fun to write. Google maps pretty much has my heart and soul now for being such a massive help. The real reason why I've never written anything quite like this before, is because the section of my brain that's required to plan things that I'm not actually a part of/will probably never have to do doesn't work very well at all. What would I do in the event of a zombie invasion? Probably freak out and play it all by ear (and end up getting eaten somewhere along the way). This chapter forced me to lay out an actual plan, but more than that, I had to come up with an interesting storyline and keep the energy moving. I'm rather new at it all and I hope I did a good job at it.  
A few thank you's are in order for everyone who reviewed! Thank you to FlurryDivider, yumeniai, Living in a fantasy (who, I believe, is WammyGirl on MB), Maddasahatter, Ashastana, angellovedark, Shinra'sCrazyTurk, Ms. Bloody Death, xXJeevas-sonXDXx, and Blondie-love. Full thank you's will be in the final author's notes. And, of course, thank you to Striped-tabby and Melissa for their help and support!  
On another note, this chapter contains what is probably my most beloved original character to date. Cat loves him to pieces and did a quick little sketch on my Mangabullet as well. Art for the story should be coming up soon, but things are quite hectic now as school draws nearer and nearer.  
Anyhoo, enjoy chapter 2 and remember to **read and review!**

Disclaimer: Death Note belongs to Ohba and Obata. Various literary allusions belong to their respective creators.

* * *

"Solitude is the profoundest fact of the human condition. Man is the only being who knows he is alone." - Octavio Paz

Chapter 2 - Genesis

The entrance to the convenience store on the corner was sealed with a lock and chain around the front doors. They didn't bother to risk running around to the back door to check there, since they imagined it would be similarly locked. All the windows were covered with heavy, metal shutters. The glass on the doors were boarded up with panels.

"Fuck, fuck, _fuck!_" Matt swore with a biting breath. He ran a hand through his hair, pacing awkwardly. He would take a quick step forward, and then turn to do the same in the opposite direction. Shotgun in one hand, he started groping around inside his pockets. His hand landed on his key ring attached to his wallet chain.

Mello's fingers tightened around his handgun, feeling the grooves of the engraved cross pressing into his palm. As he was, standing off to the side, he was completely useless, while Matt tried to divide his attention between the lock and his surroundings.

The blond stepped forward as Matt knelt down in front of the doors to examine the lock in what little light a sliver of moon could provide. His key ring was pulled halfway from his back pocket, fingers feeling over a line of picks and tensions wrenches sandwiched between keys and tiny screwdrivers, as if he were trying to decide which to use on the sturdy looking padlock.

"Give me the gun," he ordered, stretching his hand out.

"Mello, I can handle this."

"I'm not a bloody invalid, Matt! Now either give me the gun or get out of my way."

"You want to be the look out?" Matt scoffed quietly, sliding the tension wrench and pick off the key ring, not even bothering to look up. "You can't be serious."

Mello's right eye twitched, imperceptible in the darkness.

"Give me the picks and get out of the fucking way, _now_."

The redhead stilled at the chillingly serious tone in Mello's voice. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the hand that hovered close to his face flexing menacingly.

Farther down the road, a trash can crashed against the concrete sidewalk.

A moment of horrified silence followed.

"Shit!" Matt swore, finally pressing the picks into Mello's hand. He got to his feet, pivoting rapidly. He could hear stealthy scurrying, nothing more than whispers of feet that he strained to hear over the clicking of Mello picking the lock beside him. One moment, it would be on the ground, but then it snaked upwards, climbing, Matt following the sound with the shotgun. It weaved from side to side, up and down, and he could almost imagine it crawling across the front of buildings, shoulders low and set, like a wild cat on a nature documentary.

It wasn't sniffing them out anymore, it was _stalking_.

"Mello," he said slowly, taking careful steps back until he was pressed close to the building. "We need to hurry."

Beside him, Mello bit back an irritated noise. "I'm going as fast as I can," he said. He raked the pins again, feeling all but one cylinder set. He realized with frustration that his hands were shaking, threatening to release the pressure on the cylinders he had set. He took one breath to try and calm himself.

Nothing. His fingers still trembled and he felt his grip on the tension wrench starting to slip.

"Mello-"

"I know, alright?!" he snapped, a little louder than he intended. He shifted the pick just slightly and..._click_. The lock opened with an easy tug. He smiled despite himself and let out a pleased breath. "Got it."

_BANG!_

The shotgun went off behind him. Something sprang from the darkness. Matt shot again, catching it in the shoulder. It's flight path faltered, but that was it. It hit Matt heavily in the chest, limbs flailing, catching the redhead in it's grip and dragging him down to the ground. They landed in a thrashing heap, the creature scrabbling viciously at his body.

For a moment, Mello thought it was the end, that Matt was a goner, that he was zombie chow. But then-

"Fucking hell, Mello! Shoot it!"

Matt was far from dead. He was keeping the creature, a woman Mello suddenly realized with a sickening lurch, at bay with the shotgun in his hands. The firearm pressed upwards against the woman's throat. Her right arm rested on the ground, twitching and useless, blood slowly dripping from her wounded shoulder. The other arm alternated between attacking and balancing her weight as she gnashed her teeth at the prey pinned beneath her.

One quick swipe caught Matt on the cheek, drawing thin lines of oozing red just below his eye. "Come on! Just shoot it!" Matt exclaimed as Mello took unsteady aim, balancing himself on his knees.

He pulled the trigger once. It caught the woman in the face, far from the blond's intended target, sending chunks of skin and cartilage flying. Mello hesitated, briefly realizing just how close he had come to Matt's skull.

The second shot caught the woman in the throat, turning her bloodthirsty shrieks into helpless gurgling and throwing her off balance enough to allow Matt to push her away. The redhead scrambled to his feet, chest heaving. He stared, paralyzed, as the woman rolled around on the dusty pavement, watched as blood poured from the side of her throat, as her eyes flitted around in a frenzy.

And then they locked with Matt's, held them, brown irises meeting that horribly neutral abyss.

"Matt!" Mello called, pulling the chain away from the door. The sound of others coming to the woman's aid bounced back and forth off the empty buildings, echoing and warping in a disorienting circle of savage screams. "Matt! Come on! We have to get in!" But the redhead seemed worlds away, trapped in those eyes that both thirsted for blood and pleaded for mercy.

She stretched out a shaking hand, fingernails broken and mangled in places, with dark clumps of dirt and filth and God-knows-what wedged underneath them. Her fingers brushed the side of Matt's leg, tightened weakly around the denim of his pants, and Matt's heart stopped.

He imagined those eyes were a brilliant green once, those hands smooth and gentle with nails neatly trimmed, a French manicure maybe. That blouse was once pale pink, not dingy brown with missing buttons and vomit stains. Her legs may have once had soft curves, gentle slopes, but now they were angled and bulging, thin but muscular, tendons and veins prominent under pasty flesh.

Her fingers tightened and she bared her teeth at him, hissing, canines stained with red in the negligible moonlight.

Matt's finger twitched and pulled and the woman went silent, her face and skull riddled with shot.

He wasn't sure how long he stood there, listening to that nagging voice in the back of his head (_she wasn't an animal, she was human. And you've killed her, you've murdered her, murderer, _murderer!) before Mello was at his side, dragging him away and cursing under his breath.

"...the fuck is wrong with you?!" The blond's voice finally drifted in. All around them, shrieks echoed back and forth. "We have to get in _now_! Those things are coming and we have no defense here!"

Matt stumbled along, Mello's hand tight around his upper arm. He blinked dumbly, staring at the ground.

_Get inside_, his brain murmured, muffled by the shouted accusations. _They'll know you're there. They'll break in. _He stopped just inside, just as Mello released him to work at wrenching a PVC shelf from one of the displays that he could use to bar the doors.

_They don't know there's two of you._

"Vinegar," Matt murmured, looking around, thin, spidery lines of blood drying on his cheek.

Mello gave him an annoyed look, shakily setting the shelf down. "What?" he panted. The damn sheet of PVC was heavier than he thought.

"Vinegar!" Matt repeated, gesturing impatiently with his hands. "It'll cover our scent!" He hurried forward, rummaging through one of the dusty shelves full of baking soda and corn starch and - aha! Vinegar! There were only a few small bottles left. He took three and shoved them in his messenger bag and ripped the cap off another.

"What in the world are you doing?!" Mello exclaimed as Matt ran back outside and began pouring the pungent fluid all over the concrete just outside the store. "They could be here any second! Now get in!"

"There should be enough food in here to last you the night," Matt said, flinging the empty vinegar bottle aside and pulling a pair of Berettas from the duffel bag. The guns were placed with the extra vinegar bottles. "If this place hasn't been broken into yet, chances are they can't get in anywhere else." His eyes were bright and frantic.

Mello found it incredibly disturbing.

"What do you mean _me_? You're not actually thinking of staying out there?" Mello grabbed Matt's arm as he gathered up the chain and lock from the front door, fingers tight around his thin wrist. "That thing almost killed you!"

"But it didn't," Matt countered, pulling his arm out of the desperate grip. "And with that woman's body out there, they're not going to leave unless they have something to chase." The redhead passed the duffel bag off to Mello, along with the contents of his pockets and his wallet chain and smiled weakly. "Stay in here until morning, okay?"

Mello paled, both furious and horrified. "You couldn't even go up and down the stairs without getting winded! Stop trying to be heroic, alright?! I don't need protecting!"

Smashing glass and a resounding car alarm went off in the street. Matt used the distraction to shove Mello inside. He began pulling the doors closed, chain and lock slung over his shouder. "If I don't come back..." he trailed off, biting his lip. "Just go on without me, okay?"

He didn't give his friend time to respond. A second later, the doors were shut tight and there was the sound of the chain rattling and the lock closing. For a few moments, the blond stood frozen in place, stunned. Then he raced back to grab the shelf and wedge it between the doors handles, huffing and panting with the effort.

The shrieks and screeching and screams came closer, closer, and then they were passing by and fading away into the night. In the silence that followed, Mello sank down against a shelf full of canned fruit, soup, and beans.

_Just go on without me, okay?_

Mello kicked irritably at the shelf across from him, angrier than he had been in a long time. He hated that look in Matt's eyes, that guilty, self-sacrificing, bullshit expression.

He hated this fucking burn on his face, he hated his shaking hands, he hated the fear and the tears that were stirring inside him and threatening to overflow.

He hated the flickering emergency lighting above his head and the smell of ammonia and dust and stagnant, dry air.

He hated the worry and the questions that plagued him even as he drifted in and out of an uneasy, half-asleep state.

'Where the fuck am I supposed to go?'

* * *

Matt ran.

Thighs burning, arms pumping, chest heaving, he ran, not daring to look back.

His footfalls on the barren asphalt sounded like heavy drum beats, drawing the shrieking hoard right to him.

_In case of an emergency, contact your local disaster shelter_, Matt's mind recited, Kiyomi Takada's voice replaying the same message again and again and again. _The nearest shelter to your area is the LA Red Cross on Ohio Avenue..._

Vaguely, Matt saw the route he needed to take in his mind, but he felt as if he were floating far off and all he had to do was make sure he kept putting one heavy foot in front of the other.

'Barry Avenue,' he thought. 'Follow Barry to Rochester.' Inhuman cries rounded the corner behind him. He passed a parking garage; dozens of cars sat in the little spaces, empty and dark. 'Follow Barry to Rochester, Barry to Rochester, Barry to-'

Just after the garage, he took a sharp left turn, darting between the parking structure and a sparse line of trees, and then another right onto the unnamed road heading south.

"Fuck!" he gasped, lungs burning and pleading at him to stop. He struggled to keep his footing on the uneven, unkempt roadway. The backs of houses towered darkly on either side of him, broken windows and torn curtains like gaping mouths, screaming wordlessly into the night, ready to release a howling demon at any moment. Takada's soothing directions in his head cut off there, because this wasn't the proper route that she had been narrating to them every morning, afternoon, and evening for the past month. He was supposed to take Barry to Rochester. Right at Barry, she'd said. Then left at Rochester. Or, if Wilshire was open, proceed to Hadley, and then to Dowlen, and...and-

His feet carried him against his will, locked into some grand plan that he wasn't privy to, this time taking a right onto Federal Avenue. His brain frantically tried to recalculate the directions, grasped at his bearings like grasping at smoke, torn between the instinctive response to flight and the rational urge to remain calm.

And then he wasn't floating anymore. He was falling, heavily, back into himself and his rising panic.

He stumbled and slowed, doubling over with his arms around his middle.

"I can't," he gasped, speaking into the emptiness of the night. "I _can't_." Can't run, can't win, can't _escape._

There wasn't enough ammo to fight them all off, there wasn't enough time until dawn to keep running.

Any moment now, they were going to bear down on him and tear him to pieces. Maybe they would be truly merciful and actually kill him, maybe he could actually fight the urge to struggle and actually stay dead. Maybe they would smash his head open on the asphalt and slurp up his brain matter and _finish_ _it_-

The redhead felt his stomach clench nauseatingly and he gagged, hand pressed to his mouth to stifle the noise. He would not let them hear his cries, he refused to incite them.

And that was when Matt realized that it was strangely quiet.

His breath stilled in his throat, his diaphragm twitching in an attempt at an optimistic gasp. He could hear nothing behind him, only the sounds of snarls and low growls off in the distance.

He turned his head to look back, slowly, afraid that if he were wrong, they might leap at him if he moved too suddenly.

The empty street stared back at him. Moths danced, reverent and entranced, around a dying street lamp on the corner of the intersection.

He had shaken them off. He had actually managed to elude them.

But it wouldn't be for long, he registered. They were still scouring the street. They could still smell him, smell his heat, smell his breath, smell his flesh and his blood and his life.

He looked around frantically, his throat sore and burning with every wheezing breath. He had to get off the street, he had to find some way to slow them down. But he needed something to throw him off his trail, or else they would just end up following him all the way to the shelter.

He took a few stumbling steps forward, standing in the intersection between Federal and Texas. There were no lights on at all down that street, just an endless tunnel of black.

His brain sprang into action again, but this time he felt none of the floating sensations from before. He worked quickly, tearing away what remained of his left shirt sleeve, hooking the pieces on the spindly branches of a bush growing in front of a motel on the corner. He ran a small ways down the street, brushing against cars and leaving scraps of striped fabric in his wake. Then he ran back to the intersection and headed farther down Federal Avenue instead, dumping out one of the bottles of vinegar behind him.

The Red Cross was to the east, just on the other side of the buildings lining the road. He jumped the fence at the entrance of the National Guard building (the building had been evacuated after an employee had collapsed after falling ill; they moved their operations to the police department downtown) and jogged quickly and quietly across the nearly empty parking lot. A few camouflaged military trucks still sat off near the fenced perimeter, covered in dirt and oil and grease.

He couldn't bring himself to run, legs still aching under the strain of even the moderate pace of his jog. Getting over the next fence was even more difficult, arms shaking and screaming in protest as he pulled himself up. It was a cumbersome task, getting his legs over the top of the fence, and when he came down on the ground on the other side, he staggered forward and fell into the dirt, unprepared for the change from solid asphalt to yielding, dry earth. The dust came up in slow clouds around him, invading his nostrils, filling his mouth. He coughed weakly into the crook of his arm, his lungs greedily trying to keep him from expelling more air than necessary.

There were no lights out here, and if there were, they weren't working. He was, quite literally, wandering blindly. He pulled one of the handguns from his bag, checking to make sure it was loaded.

His steps were slow, feet shuffling through the dirt until they hit gravel. The sudden sound of stones rattling beneath his feet startled him at first. He jerked backwards, gun raised, whipping his head around for signs of movement. Even if something had moved, he doubted he would see it, a black shadow on the black night. Virtually invisible.

After a few tense moments, he toed the gravel again, walked through it until his foot hit dirt. He stopped and then turned slightly to follow the gravel once more and hit dirt a few moments later. He squinted, straining to see in front of him, and made out a very vague, curving trail extending out in front of him.

It was a path.

A path he followed, simply because it was the only distinguishable landmark, the only thing leading him anywhere. A path that eventually led to a pair of inoperative transformers.

And Dowlen drive. And the Red Cross.

Matt laughed weakly as he stumbled up to the building, almost crying with joy at the dim light still on in the entrance.

* * *

Mello fumed.

This was not his usual position, left at a significant disadvantage. He was usually the one with the upper hand. He had always made sure of that during his days with the mob.

And something about the fact that he was not only being protected against his will, but cut off from the outside world as well had him drawn taut and tense in aggravation.

He took a painfully slow and (vaguely) steady breath to try and create some shaky sense of calm. Almost reluctantly, his shoulders slumped, his knees drew in a little closer to his chest, and he sighed heavily, cradling the left half of his face with splayed fingers and a calloused palm. The edge of a dusty shelf dug further between a pair of vertebrae in the small of his back.

The back entrance had been left locked, with no signs of damage. The freezer was warm and moist and smelled of spoilt milk, but empty. It was the same in the supply closet, without the unpleasant dampness and odor of sour dairy.

The silence was unbearable, feeding the gluttonous uncertainty in the pit of his stomach. He felt it swell and twitch inside of him, felt it constrict around his chest as fear and hopelessness flitted back and forth across his brain, felt it crest in a very quiet gasping sound somewhere near the back of his throat, and then ebb away once more.

In the wake of those moments, he felt himself split. With his right eye, he saw cold, grey tiles, saw wooden panels and metal shutters fencing him in. With his right eye, he saw nothing.

In his left eye, he saw sunlight. Bright, warm, yellow radiance spilling over onto wooden floorboards. It was like watching an old film; everything seemed dusty and worn and far, far away. Matt's hair was a dull mahogany, his voice was nothing more than the echo of a whisper, remnants of smoke, hardly there at all. He was all unreadable smiles and lazy stances and eyes hidden behind orange lenses.

Mello fumed and seethed and _hurt_. Yes, hurt, because the bandage over his eye was slimy and itchy and desperately needed to be changed.

And because of all the things he could have thought of to keep his mind off of how many hours were left until dawn, he found himself stuck on that same jumble of half-formed, vague images of the redheaded gamer.

He stretched to the side to fist a hand in the fabric of the nearby duffel and drag it close. He peeled away the tape holding the gauze to his skin slowly, but with enough frustrated yanking that it left a burning bite behind.

He rummaged through the duffel and pulled out the emergency kit. His fingers fumbled around, blinking to try and clear his vision.

The colors still swam maddeningly about in his left eye.

_Why Matt? Why him?_, he thought angrily as he unscrewed a tub of ointment with a violent turn of the hand. His fingers let the lid slip indifferently from his hands, not bothering to watch in which direction it skidded across the slightly grimy tiles.

It wasn't as if that was all there was in his life. He had plenty other memories, plenty of experiences he had accumulated.

He scooped out ointment with his fingers and began spreading it, a bit more roughly than he probably should have, over the burn. He almost reveled in the throbbing, white hot ache that rose form his forceful touch, because he needed _something_ to take his frustration out on, and he was the only thing within reach that could feel pain. It allowed him to feel something other than the anxiety he vehemently denied he was feeling, even as he felt the awkward rigidity in his arms and shoulders, felt the burning of something unnameable high on his cheeks and in the corners of his eyes.

Abruptly, Mello went still as he felt the dark beast in his belly rear it's head again, but this time it was tinged with something he couldn't place, a heavy and thick sensation that curled at the hollow of his neck. It was suffocating, leaden, cold and hot at the same time. He was being squeezed to a quantum singularity and free falling all at once ,compressing, descending, collapsing, plummeting into some lukewarm place that hovered between nothing and everything.

At first, there was nothing but the dim hum of a generator, punctuated with the faltering, muted crackle of florescent lightbulbs. Then, the quiet ripping of fibers as gauze was torn into squares and the _scrittt_ of unrolling medical tape.

And then...crying, soft, so soft the generator nearly overwhelmed it. Mello put his hands over his face and simply _cried _in frustration, without excuse, without explanation. Tears that refused to start or stop and stayed desperately clinging to his eyelashes.

His jaw tightened, his teeth clenched together, his breaths were measured and deliberate, held back only by a feeble rhythm that threatened to break at any moment into an uneven tempo of wheezing.

_THUNK! THUNK! CRASH!_

Mello's head jerked up, his entire body suddenly at attention as a few aisles away, a number of cans tipped over, rolled off their shelf, and fell heavily to the floor.

_He wasn't alone_.

In one smooth motion, the blond was on his feet, gun in hand and aimed at the shelf in the distant aisle where a lone, toppled can slowly rolled back and forth.

The store fell into unsettling silence again, save for panicked and poorly stifled breathing. seconds ticked by (because the only clock in the convenience store had been stuck at 7:30 all night long) as Mello tried to calm his racing heart, head jerking minutely to the left every so often to see what his peripherals could not. He would have been content telling himself that it was simply a wobbly shelf, that those cans had been balancing precariously there for days.

But, he was certain that he had heard a flurry of noises amidst the clunking, something that wasn't falling cans.

He took cautious, careful steps towards the mess of cans at the end of one of the center aisles. Heel to toe, heel to toe, not even his soles dare let out a stray squeak against the ceramic tiling. He crept closer and closer, ears straining to hear that noise again, that slight scrabbling, but his breathing was louder and faster, despite all attempts to tell himself to calm down, just calm down, just _fucking calm down!_

_The doors were locked_, he told himself, _No one has gotten in or out since then, no one could possibly be in here. _

_Unless - _

His breath hitched just as the toe of his boot collided with an unlabeled can, kicking it a short way across the floor.

_Unless someone had locked themselves in and they had ended up..._

Mello swallowed, eyes wide, as his arms began to shake with minute tremors, aching from being raised for so long.

He saw a dark shape move and then disappear behind a line of boxes on one of the lower shelves. He felt relief which was quickly replaced by fear. Too small to be human, but big enough to bite him, to _kill _him. His arms followed the shadow, watched cardboard boxes rustle as it scurried along the shelf and knocked over a few bags of rice and a box of baking soda along the way.

The lights flickered overhead and the shadow suddenly darted over into the next aisle.

Mello followed as quickly as he could, making sure not to trip on the cans, but it wasn't enough. In the unsteady lighting, all the shadows moved and writhed and the scratching noise had disappeared.

Something warm brushed against his ankle.

He leapt back with a yelp, fingers twitching on the trigger as he aimed at the floor.

"_Mreow_..."

There was a cat sitting at his feet, staring up at him with wide, emerald eyes.

At first, Mello had thought the feline was infected and that it was about to bite down on his leg and tear the skin from his thigh.

That thought evaporated quickly, though, when the cat meowed softly at him again, rubbing his head against his foot.

Mello heaved a very heavy, very relieved sigh, the muscles in his shoulders gratefully uncoiling as he lowered his arms. "Just a fucking cat," he breathed, rubbing a hand tiredly over his face.

It was, quite possibly, the ugliest cat Mello had ever seen. Its coat was a muddy brown, as if he had never been given a proper bath, with a long puckered scar over his forehead that ended just above one big green eye. Bent and uneven whiskers framed his chubby face and a little chunk was missing from the tip of his right ear. And his _legs_...they were_ short._ Freakishly short, one or two inches long at most.

He had never seen an infected animal, so watched the cat with a wary eye, watching for any signs that it might be dangerous.

The cat continued to mewl at him, pawing lightly at the blond's leather covered legs, gazing up with a pleading look.

No, it definitely wasn't dangerous.

"What?" he sighed, rather irritated. "What do you want?" The gun slipped into the waistband of his pants and he leaned down to pick the cat up, slipping his hands under it's stubby arms. The cat hung limply, letting out a whining meow, not even looking the blond in the eye. Mello frowned, feeling a little offended. "What?" he repeated, brow furrowed. "Isn't this what you want?"

The cat wriggled and, when Mello put him back down on the floor, hurried over to the closed supply closet door. It cried and pawed at the door, looking back at the former mob boss with an imploring look.

When Mello finally opened the door, the cat darted in and started in on gnawing determinedly on the corner of an unopened bag of cat food. A pair of small metal bowls next to it were completely empty.

He felt bad for the cat all of a sudden. He wondered how long ago the store owner had locked it inside, how long it had gone without food.

The cat began to meow loudly in excitement when Mello finally filled it's food and water bowls and, after it finished eating, wouldn't leave him alone. He purred loudly in gratitude and rubbed his head against Mello's hand and thigh and hip after his leather-clad savior had settled back in his spot beside the duffel, across from the canned peaches.

Watching the cat eat reminded him that he hadn't eaten in almost 12 hours, so he ripped open the pull-back lid on one of the cans of peaches and tore into the preserved fruit. He tried using his fingers at first, but a large drop of syrup dripped out onto the cat's head, leaving the blond laughing as it ran off to give itself a thorough grooming, yowling indignantly. By the time the cat sauntered back, head clean and only slightly sticky, Mello had settled on slurping the slices from the can, being careful not to cut his mouth on the rim. He was still hungry afterwards, but the small bit of food was enough to have his eyelids drooping drowsily only a few minutes later.

"You know, you need a name," he murmured to the cat who had chosen to curl up in Mello's lap for the night. He paused for a moment, scratching behind his injured ear. "How about Mail?" He tried to smile, but his face fell as his heart gave a painful twinge.

No, not Mail. Not that name.

His body felt heavy and warm, chest slowly rising and falling. Pain was turning to tingling numbness, light was becoming dark, soothing and inviting and enveloping.

He licked at his chapped lips, tongue thick in his mouth.

"Neville," he murmured as his eyes slipped shut. "That's a nice name...Neville."

The last thing he heard and felt was the cat purring in response, warm vibrations ripping through him and lulling him to sleep.


	4. Awakening

A/N: This chapter has been in my head for months, but it's taken me a long time to get it all written out, what with school starting up, NaNoWriMo, and my original characters all assaulting me at once. Maybe I was a little less scary near the end, but I think it's because this chapter is really the end of one event and the beginning of one even bigger. It's a short-lived respite, and not all that calming, but I still feel as if I pulled back a little bit on the fear factor at the end.  
I'm not sure if I'll ever see any more art for this thing done, as the whole project aspect seems to have fallen apart, but I'm still going to write it as long as I can (which will hopefully be until the very end; it's a very long story, you see). Much thanks to xXJeevas-SonXDXx, Living in a fantasy, Misha 2011, Shinra'sCrazyTurk, Shadow Dancer666, Maddasahatter, FlurryDivider, yumeniai, jrenee07, Mello-Mellon, RainbowJapan, Ninja Basket, Maybesunny. Werevampy (had to put a space in there because FF didn't like your username apparently ;A;), Delshay, parasitic, and Blondie-love for their awesome reviews. I'm sorry to keep you guys waiting so long! I hope you enjoy this next chapter! Remember to **read and review!**

As always, thank you to Cat for her unwavering support. I couldn't do it without you, wifey.

Disclaimer: Matt and Mello don't belong to me, nor any other DN characters that may or may not appear. The plot is mine though. Hands off, Ohba and Obata.

* * *

"In a world of monotonous horror there could be no salvation in wild dreaming." - Richard Matheson, I Am Legend

Chapter 3 - Awakening

Matt's optimism was very short lived. The only workable door to the lobby was locked fast (the automatic sliding doors had been firmly jammed in place with heavy metal bars). Through the dingy glass of the sliding doors, he could see that the entire lobby was empty. Behind the vacant front desk, there was a paper sign against the wall reading "emergency shelter" and an arrow pointing down the hallway to the left wing of the building.

Slowly, he lowered his hand and searched frantically in his pocket. He had left his wallet chain with Mello, but the two picks he used before were still there, wedged in the bottom of the pocket.

They would have to do.

Picking the lock on the door took him longer than it should have, trying simultaneously to watch over his shoulder and keep quiet. He was safer now than he had been back at the convenience store. Sunrise was not far off now and the dark of night was slowly beginning to dissolve into the muted deep purple of pre-dawn.

It was always safer during the day. Most of those..._things_ hid from the sun, avoided it as much as they could. Some of them came out during the daylight hours, but they usually chose to flee than attack, their movements clumsy and fatigued.

For a moment, Matt began to contemplate why, but then the lock clicked into place and the knob twisted easily in his hand.

"Heh," the redhead exhaled, allowing himself a tiny grin as he hurried inside. He poured more vinegar outside the doorway and over the threshold before closing and locking the door behind him.

The lobby was sweltering, the air heavy and thick with humidity. A peculiar odor, reminiscent of mildew, hung about, wet and pungent and grimace-inducing. Paired with the pale wallpapering of creeping vines and unidentifiable leaves and plants, it felt a bit like a jungle.

Each of Matt's steps were met with slight resistance as his soles stuck to the thin layer of cleaning solution and floor wax covering the tiles. Guns raised, he walked carefully around the lobby, squinting his eyes against the poor lighting. Once he confirmed that the lobby was, indeed, abandoned, he continued on past the front desk towards the door leading to the left wing.

He took a slow, shuddering breath, looking the doors slowly up and down. He could see no light seeping out from beneath them, just a hungry blackness that seemed to be devouring whatever light it could. He looked back over his shoulder. The doors to the right wing of the building had been closed off with heavy bars and biohazard symbols. A signboard warned him in bright red letters "DO NOT ENTER: Contaminated Area. Authorized Personnel Only".

Well, he wouldn't be going that way.

Another breath and Matt leaned lightly against the door. He positioned his feet as best as he could to keep a steady stance against the almost impossibly viscous floor tiles.

Slowly, he pushed the door open with his shoulder, peeking into the dark and endless hall.

The smell of death and decay hit him in a smothering tidal wave, invading and violating his senses like a slimy, wriggling fish through his nasal passages.

"Oh God," he choked, feet threatening to slip as he hunched over, giving dry heaves. Sweat beaded at his temple and dripped down the side of his face. He shuddered at the warm, slick trail it left against his already feverish skin. He raised his arm up and covered his mouth and nose with the sleeve that hadn't been torn away.

The smell still managed to get through the make-shift mask, seeping into his pores, absorbed by his clothes, clinging to his hair.

Futilely trying to fight back his tremors, he edged into the pitch black corridor, one small step at a time. The sound of his breaths, jerky and uneven, echoed the hall, eyes watering as the stench began to gradually overwhelm him.

_Squelch._

Matt froze as his foot landed on something that was not tile, something slippery and thick.

_Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck-_

Lower lip beginning to tremble, his blood running frigid in his veins, he groped into his pocket (while trying to hold his breath) for his lighter.

_Click!_

He blinked once, eyes adjusting to the light of the flame.

The entire floor was covered with blood, entrails strewn about, and right next to his foot was a...a hand. A hand with a rather large bite-

Matt scrambled backwards, choking loudly. He stumbled and nearly fell, catching himself on the wall and shrieking when he felt something warm gumming against his palm.

"Safely" back in the lobby, Matt began to retch again. He felt his stomach turn and clench in protest; it had nothing left to give. He fell to his knees, furiously scrubbing his stained palm against the threadbare cushion of one of the chairs.

Everyone was...everyone was gone.

"No!" Matt grunted, giving the chair a frustrated shove. A few more tears, uncomfortably hot, slid down his cheeks. He brushed them away with a vicious swipe of his arm. "No...no..." he repeated hoarsely.

He hadn't come all this way for nothing. There _had_ to be something, _someone_ left!

He gazed desperately at the quarantined wing of the building, fear fueling his paranoia that just beyond those doors was food and water and doctors in crisp, clean clothing and some semblance of civilization.

And then his eyes landed on the door to the stairs.

And it was unobstructed.

He leapt for the door. When the doorknob turned easily in his hand, he gave a ragged, watery laugh. He pushed the door a little before there was a rattle and a sudden stop. Matt pushed harder, gritting his teeth, until finally, with a loud clanging, the door gave way. The chair that had been blocking the door lay on it's side on the stairs.

Someone had blocked the door from the inside, meaning that there had to be someone here!

The stairs were clear and clean and Matt took them nearly three at a time, the warm feeling of hope and optimism bubbling back up in his chest.

At the top of the stairs, the door to the second floor was open as well. And down the hall there was light coming from one of the rooms.

Matt couldn't help the relieved smile that sprung onto his face at the sight. He strode down the hall, shoulders slumped and relaxed. Suddenly, the shadowy doors of the rooms he passed didn't seem so intimidating.

_Everything's going to be alright_, he told himself, wishing he could have been saying it to Mello instead. The determination to get back to him burned a little stronger now.

"Thank God, I've-" he began as he stopped in the lighted doorway, and then found his voice quite abruptly stolen away.

Two people, one man and one woman, both in military uniform, lay motionless and pale on the floor. The woman lay face down in a large, dried puddle of blood. The man was sprawled a few feet away, glassy eyes staring up at the ceiling, a bullet wound to the temple and a handgun resting in the palm of his hand.

Matt inched into the room, gun aimed at the woman's back. He toed her body lightly, exhaling in relief when she remained motionless. He turned her over with his foot and saw that she had been shot right between the eyes.

The room was turned into an impromptu communications center. The hospital beds had been shoved against the wall to make room for a radio transceiver system by the window, which was sealed with metal shutters.

Matt strode forward to see if the system was still working and, fingers just on the frequency knob, he suddenly realized that there was something moving out of the corner of his eye.

Slowly, he turned his head, breath caught in his throat, pulse throbbing in his neck. Past the removable wall that partially separated the two rooms, a figure was hunched over another dead soldier, his back to the only living being in the room. It wore nothing but a pair of tattered denim jeans. It's hair hung, stringy and sparse, from a sallow scalp. The skin of it's back was nearly transluscent. Matt could see the web of pale blue veins branching from shoulder blades to hips, muscles flexing and rippling over prominent vertebrae. The head of the man currently being devoured was nearly separated from the body by a few large bites to the neck. One of the windows had been left open. It was on the verge of dawn outside.

Matt's first reaction was to stop breathing entirely. The next was to try to _remember_ to breath, quiet and slow. He took one cautious step backwards, then another...

...then the sole of his shoe squeaked against the linoleum.

The figure paused, the sudden cessation of chewing and grunting giving way to the sound of blood dripping from it's jaws.

And then it turned, yellowing eyes widening in that split-second of realization.

It lunged, Matt shot.

It hit him, jaws snapping, fetid breath hitting his face in heavy bursts. He heard the handgun slide across the floor and hit the wall.

He had _missed_, he realized with mounting terror.

He yelled now, yelled in panic and fear and desperation, kicking his legs out as hard as he could and somehow managing to catch the man in the side, throwing him violently off.

"Shitshitshit!" Matt said, voice high and terrified. He flipped over and crawled as fast as he could across the floor, throwing himself at the male soldier as the infected man came down heavily on his legs, teeth latched onto his calf and yanking hard. Matt nearly slammed his jaw into the floor as he was dragged back, but his hand still stretched as far as it could reach, until his fingers closed around that cold, dead hand and that cold, unforgiving metal.

The muscles in his back burned like the muscles in his calf as he twisted himself around as much as he could and aimed at the ravenous monster at his feet.

_BANG!_

Thank you, dear God, the gun had actually been _loaded!_

Unused to the weapon, Matt was unprepared for the sharp recoil, his elbow locking and jarring for a few painful seconds. A spatter of blood spread over the floor as the shot caught the man along his back, the bullet leaving a deep, open wound down the side of his spine. Howling in pain, he scurried back, leaving Matt stumbling and lurching toward it for his gun.

The man perched himself on the window, screaming out into the night, calling others to him. It was ear-piercing and pained and angry. Blood poured in thick, lapping waves down his back.

His cries cut out abruptly when Matt threw himself at the window, slamming the metal shutter closed. From there, a new sort of shrieks began, along with banging and scuffling and thrashing. Matt had caught the creatures fingers in the window, twitching digits swelling and reddening under the excruciating pressure.

Gritting his teeth with vicious determination, Matt gave the shutter one last hard shove and there was a sickening snap as those fingers stopped moving and a loud thud as a body hit the ground outside.

For a few minutes, Matt stayed slumped heavily against the shutter, breathing raggedly and desperately. His eyes, wide and unblinking, remained fixed on the digits still stuck in the seam of the shutter, rapidly growing pale and cold.

Now separated from their original owner, they looked like very human fingers. They reminded him of the woman's fingers, hands that reached out to him, as if they were asking him for help.

Matt moaned weakly at the memory and got unsteadily to his feet. He turned, stepping clumsily over the man's half-eaten corpse to reach one of the hospital beds and pull the side railings off it. He slid these through the handle of the doors into the room to close it off as best as he could. A thorough search of the rest of the room produced only a handful of supplies. There was only one roll of gauze left, a few iodine swabs, and an unopened box of rubber gloves.

After he had finished securing the room, he turned his attention to the newly acquired firearm in his hand. It had three bullets left in the magazine. He would need more ammunition and his only source was...

Matt swallowed thickly as his eyes landed on the two men and the woman sprawled out on the floor.

"Sorry about this," he whispered before he pulled on a pair of rubber gloves and set about rummaging the pockets of the corpses' military uniforms. As his latex covered hands closed on knifes and handguns and extra mags, he could feel his lungs drawing in shorter and shorter breaths until he was pretty much just holding his breath, waiting for it all to be over.

Three magazines, two knifes, and two grenades. Not too bad.

Matt loathed himself for that thought.

The radio transceiver was, indeed, still working. Matt held one of the headphones to his ear as he slowly twisted the frequency knob, listening closely for any sign of a human voice coming through across the radio waves.

Nothing but silence and static.

Matt turned the knob to the frequency the city had been using for emergency broadcasts and leaned in towards the microphone of the transmitter, finger pressing down on the talk button. "Er...hello?" he began awkwardly. The emptiness of the airwaves replied back, nothing but a hollow echo and a vague crackling noise. "T-this is Matt...just Matt. I'm located at the LA Red Cross on Ohio Avenue." He stopped for a moment and felt a twinge of frustration at the continuing silence that followed his every word, as if the entire work was just staring blankly at him. He took a deep breath and pressed onward. "I've been separated from my friend. He's hurt and we're running low on food and supplies. Rations have stopped coming and...and the city looks like it's been completely abandoned. Everyone at the shelter is-" He faltered for a split second, finger threatening to slip off the transmit button. "Is dead. We need help. Is anyone out there?" His finger let up and he listened closely. He thought he heard a vague titter of noise, but it was nothing more than a hum of feedback. Not a definite sign of life, but a little bit encouraging. "Please, if someone out there is still alive, is still safe, please, say something." The feedback grew louder and louder, peaked in volume, then slowly began to fade away again. Matt frantically tried to grasp at it. "Please, just...just say something! Anything! Please! There's got to be someone out there!" The hum was gone entirely now, nothing but a passing light in the dark, there and gone and not a trace of it left behind.

Matt threw the headphones down with a shout of aggravation and sank to the floor, doubled over with his head clenched firmly between his forearms and his fingers sunk deeply in his hair, sobbing into his thighs.

A few minutes later, Matt pulled the microphone down to hold it tightly against his chest.

He let out a sharp sniffle and a shaky breath as he pushed the talk button. "Please..." he whispered. "Please, God. Just...please, there has to be someone. Just say something. Please, God, don't do this. Someone. _Anyone_. Don't leave us alone..."

Not a single human voice emerged from the silence and even God's mercy seemed to have abandoned them as his prayer lost itself somewhere in the endless ether.

* * *

_"Don't smile like that. You're making me begin to regret this."_

_Matt stood just outside the apartment, a wide grin on his face, a full duffel slung over his shoulder, hands full with three laptop bags, and a bundle of wires and controllers under his arm. "Can I come in?"_

_Mello tapped his foot, looking the redhead up and down. "Only if you stop grinning like that," he repeated. _

_Matt tried his best to feign a serious, stern expression. Mello felt his lips turning up into a smile against his will, laughter threatening to spill over at the ridiculous face. "That better?" Matt deadpanned._

_"Alright, fine, come in." Mello stepped away to let his friend in, striding off into the kitchen. "We've only got the one bedroom, so you'll have to sleep on the couch until we can get another mattress."_

_"Ah, geez, and here I thought you'd be _ready_ for me."_

_Mello rolled his eyes and went back to cutting up the onion he had sitting out on the cutting board. "Hasn't exactly been convenient for me to go shopping, you know."_

_There had been a rustling of bags as Matt had gotten out of his boots and jacket and unloaded his luggage on the floor of the front hall, but it suddenly went quiet at Mello's words. "I...thought you were done with that stuff," Matt hazarded. _

_The blond swallowed back his cutting remark and settled instead for slicing rather forcefully through another chunk of onion. "I'm getting out of it. Just a few more weeks, barring any set backs, and I should be free."_

_Matt was in the doorway of the small kitchen when Mello turned around to grab a can of tomato paste from the cupboard. He smiled weakly, twisting his wallet chain loosely around his fingers as he spoke. "But...you'll never _really_ be free, right?"_

_Mello's shoulders stiffened as he brought the tomato paste back over towards the stove where a pan with oil was warming on the burner. "No, I suppose not," he said tersely. "Do me a favor and get the cream out of the fridge."_

_It was a few seconds before Matt moved to comply, but he did so without speaking as Mello scooped up the onions and dropped them into the pan where they sizzled loudly in the hot oil. _

_"I don't even know why you got yourself involved with this stuff."_

_"You know damn well why, now leave it."_

_"Mello-"_

_With a jerk of the blond's arm, chunk of onion was flipped out of the pan and onto the stovetop. "I've never told you how to do things, Matt. If you don't like it, you don't have to be here." He took a slow, steadying breath. "I'm _trying_, Matt. I really am."_

_Matt watched wordlessly as Mello cooked the onions, then dumped in a generous amount of garam masala, followed closely by the tomato paste and cream._

_"What are you making?"_

_Just like that, they had moved on. It was so easy with them._

_"Tikka masala. Thought you might appreciate it."_

_Matt let out a hungry noise and hugged his best friend around the shoulders. "You have _no idea_," he insisted with a silly grin. "Can't find a decent plate of it anywhere in this bloody country."_

_The blond roughly jerked his shoulders. "You're going to get me burned, idiot!" He rolled his eyes as Matt sank back against the counter and did his best to look apologetic, which wasn't very good at all. "You can find it if you look hard enough."_

_The gamer gave him a lopsided grin as he plucked a cigarette from the pack in his pocket and placed it between his lips. "Guess I haven't been looking hard enough then." There was a _click_ from his lighter and then the smell of smoke began to float around Mello's head. "Mind if I take a quick shower?"_

_"Sure. We don't get much hot water, though."_

_Matt waved a hand. "No problem. I won't be long." He leaned over the pan as Mello slid the marinade and chicken in. "Dammit, that smells good, Mels." _

_The blond couldn't resist smiling a bit, the slightest tinge of pink blossoming on his cheeks. _

_"I'm really glad to be here, Mello."_

_"Me too, Matt."_

* * *

Mello couldn't be entirely sure how much sleep he had gotten. When he awoke, the entire store was still cast in the same fluorescent glow, the clock still stuck at 7:30. It may have still been the dead of night, or it may have been high noon. He wasn't sure.

Either way, when he woke up to Neville rubbing his face against his hand and nipping at his fingers, all the while mewling impatiently for more food, he realized that it would probably be impossible to fall back asleep, no matter how tired he felt.

He refilled the cat's food and water bowl and allowed himself a few delusional moments of what he could only deduce was happiness as he sat and scratched the animal behind the ears and listened to him purr as he ate.

Afterwards, he decided to scout out the store for possible barricades, a sort of "last gasp" exit strategy should his location be made known to anything..._not_ of the human variety.

He hadn't noticed it before, but near the back entrance, behind an empty, unplugged soda cooler, there was a door that led to a staircase which went up to what Mello could only assume was an attic. There was just a sliver of dim light peeking out from beneath the door at the very top of the staircase.

He paused in the doorway for a few minutes, debating his next course of action. Common sense told him to simply close the door and bar it up to be safe, but the possibility that there might be life, or even food, up there was too tempting. He tucked two handguns into the waist of his pants and snatched up a flashlight from their emergency supplies, turning it on and off a few times to test the batteries.

When he was sure he had everything in order, he took his first step into the staircase.

It was distinctly colder in the narrow passage and the dust that rose with each step threatened to draw a sneeze out of him. He turned the flashlight on and moved it up and down the stairway. Nothing but cobwebs and dust. From what he could see, the stairs looked safe to walk on.

The first step creaked under the weight of his foot and he froze in his tracks.

There was nothing but silence. He dared to step onto the second stair. That one creaked too.

And then something bolted past him, brushing against his leg. He drew in a sharp breath and nearly fired his gun when he realized that it had just been _that goddamn cat_ bounding up the stairs. It stopped at the top step, turned in the beam of light from the flashlight, and meowed impatiently.

"Shit, shut up!" Mello breathed at the cat as he made his way up the staircase a little faster than he would have liked. He only stopped when he heard a sickening crunch beneath his foot, but it had turned out to be nothing more than a cockroach.

Neville had apparently been in this room too, judging by his desperation to get inside. But Mello managed to ignore the cat and took his time opening the door, trying to juggle both the flashlight and a handgun at the same time.

Mello jiggled the knob. It turned, but the door refused to open. Mello gave it a little push and the door shifted a bit in response. He gave another push and it finally popped open.

If there was something in there, it would have attacked him by now. He felt a little bit of the tension in his limbs leave him as he slowly opened the door on creaking hinges.

Mello took a few moments to look around the room. Neville had already leapt on top of a stack of boxes and curled himself protectively on top of it. Mello suspected it was full of cat food.

And there was _food!_ Boxes and boxes of it! And rubbing alcohol! And vinegar and batteries and...

Mello was surprised to find himself on the verge of tears. He leaned back against the door, holding a hand to his mouth in stunned surprise. The bastard who had owned this store had been hoarding supplies. Even better, he had left them behind!

"Thank you, God," the blond heard himself saying.

Neville meowed in agreement.

There was only one window in the entire room, and it had been boarded up with individual planks rather than whole sheets of plywood. Mello peeked through the cracks and saw, to his immense relief, that it was morning. The sun was shining brightly in a cloudless sky over the city.

The sound of the back entrance of the store being forced open suddenly shattered Mello's rosy view. He leapt for the door to the attic and closed it as quietly as he could. He shuffled back, making sure not to make a single noise. He picked up Neville in his arms and huddled himself behind a pile of boxes, out of sight of the door.

There were heavy footfalls on the lower floor. They went back and forth around the store, searching, seeking, probably sniffing him out.

That's when he realized that _he had left the duffel behind_.

He cursed soundlessly, gripping his handguns tightly. Neville perched himself on his thighs, as if ready to fight at the blond's side.

Maybe they would go away, maybe they wouldn't even think to come up to the attic.

_Please go away, please go away, please go away_!

He had come this far. He'd made it through the night. He wasn't about to go down now.

But then the footsteps were coming up the stairs. They were slowly getting closer and closer and closer.

If there was only one of them, he could probably take it out. But the noise would undoubtedly draw more, and with the back entrance open, they would flood in one by one.

Mello leaned his head back against one of the boxes and felt his eyes start to water. I'm sorry, Matt, he thought to himself. I tried. I did my best.

The footfalls stopped and the door slowly creaked open.

Neville yowled and hissed and launched himself forward. Mello tried to grab him, but it was too late, he had already sprung over the boxes at the creature.

The blond jumped to his feet, guns raised just as Neville let out a string of hissing and spitting, only to have shock and disbelief hit him like a sack of bricks to the head.

"_Matt?_"

Matt grinned shyly back at him, looking paler and dirtier than he had when he'd left, but still very much alive and well although a little flustered at having been assaulted by a cat. He was missing one of his shirt sleeves and his jeans were torn up along his right calf, but everything else seemed intact. "Morning, sunshine. Did ya miss me?"

The cat had bounded back to Mello's side, leaping on top of a box to hiss threateningly at the redhead.

Mello lowered his gun and gaped at the younger man. The world suddenly seemed to flow back to him in one giant wave. The tide rushed inwards, until it flooded over him and overwhelmed him. There was life outside these walls. He was looking at it.

He was looking at his world right now.

Mello opened his mouth and let it hang open stupidly, unsure of what to say.

_I thought you were dead._

_I could have killed you, you moron._

_Why the fuck didn't you _say_ something?_

He took one shaky step, then another, and Matt watched him carefully, a little afraid, arms stiff at his side.

Then Mello moved forward and wrapped his arms tight around the redhead. "Shit, I'm so happy you're here, Matt," he breathed sharply.

Matt was stock still in his arms for a moment before he wound an arm around Mello's shoulders and hugged him back. "Me too, Mels. Me too."

They stood together like that for a moment, enjoying the smell and feel and warmth of another human being and Neville realized that maybe Matt wasn't all that bad and began to rub himself against the redhead's leg.

"Damn cat, get off," he muttered, giving his leg a shake.

"He's alright, don't mind him," Mello said, scooping the cat up in his arms. He smiled down at the cat and began to scratch it's belly. "Maybe we should find ways to reinforce the entrances to this place. We can use it as a shelter. There's enough food in these boxes to last us months. Maybe we can search for other survivors-"

"Mello."

The blond stopped at the solemn tone in Matt's voice, looking up to see brown eyes staring sadly back at him.

Matt stepped forward, grasping Mello by the shoulders. "Mello, we can't stay here," he said slowly. "Everyone's gone."

A sudden silence crashed down over them.

A whining noise gradually rose in pitch as the world went muffled and quiet in Mello's ears. He felt numb and cold and weightless. Matt was still speaking to him, but the words were very far away.

"Mello? Mello."

"What?" The blond blinked a few times as the whining abruptly cut out.

"They're dead. Everyone at the shelter. It's been abandoned. The whole city is empty."

Mello said nothing. Part of him fully understood what he'd just been told, but another part was still trying to digest it. He was panicking, quietly. His survival instincts had taken hold though and a Whammy child's instincts were far more useful than those of the average person. His instincts were already formulating escape plans for him.

"We can't stay," he agreed, without fully understanding why. "How are we going to get out?"

Matt gave the blond a cocky grin. "You're gonna love this. I stole a fucking Humvee."

* * *

They loaded as much of the food and supplies as they could into the military vehicle. Matt stood in the front entrance with the shot gun while Mello brought down box after box.

"They won't come out during the day," Matt explained as another box of canned fruit went into the Humvee. "The hospital had shutters on all the windows, but that was only making it easier for them to hide there. I destroyed as many of them as I could-"

He suddenly cut off, and Mello could hear the unspoken _but it isn't going to help anyone, anyway_ in the new silence.

"No driving once the sun begins to set, then," he said, going back in to get the next box, patting the redhead on the shoulder as he passed.

An hour later, they had squeezed everything they could and Mello came out with Neville in his arms. "Alright, let's go then."

Matt stopped and stared at the cat. "What are you doing?"

Mello blinked. "What?"

"We're not taking that thing."

Neville gave a low, threatening growl. "This _thing_ is Neville, and I'm bringing him with me." Matt was about to protest but the blond quickly cut him off. "Fine, you go take him back in there and lock him up in the supply closet for him to starve."

Fifteen minutes later and they were nearing the city limits, with Neville curled up in a blanket-lined crate on the floor of the Humvee by Mello's feet, sleeping happily.

"That was a low blow, Mello," the redhead remarked as they passed through the eerily quiet suburbs. Mello knew what he was seeing in those seemingly empty windows, those barely there shadows that flitted away as they passed.

There were people in those houses, and they were _watching _them.

Matt made to turn down a street thickly lined with trees.

"Don't turn that way," Mello cut in. "Keep going."

"Why?"

"Too much cover. Keep going."

They kept driving straight until a less shady drive popped up.

Matt was quickly learning how to handle the truck, maneuvering it a little clumsily around orange barrels marking off the road blocks barring the route out of the city, but obviously he wasn't learning quickly enough for Mello.

"Matt..." he began lowly.

"Fine, fuck this," he muttered and simply plowed through the rest of the road signs telling them to turn back. He turned on the CB radio, telling Mello to change the frequency every few minutes, just in case.

Mello put a hand to the window as he gazed at the world passing by outside. With the daylight around them, the world seemed less dangerous, and yet he had to remind himself that he was watching it through bullet proof glass. Empty cars littered the highway and once or twice, something dashed across the road and into the trees past the curb.

Mello noticed that Matt never even dared to slow down. If anything, he sped up when he saw them. And each time, his hand would tighten on the steering wheel until it disappeared again. Then it would loosen and wring itself anxiously as Matt let out a long, deliberate breath.

"Matt?"

"Hmm?"

Mello touched his hip lightly. "You alright?"

"Fine," the redhead said tensely. "Just...just a little tired."

"What happened, Matt?"

The radio crackled and brown eyes focused intensely on the dash. For a few long minutes, there was nothing else and Mello reached out and changed the frequency again.

"What happened to your leg?"

"One of them got me." Mello went rigid beside him. "Don't worry. Didn't go through my boot."

Green eyes narrowed in suspicion as the older man slowly slid back towards the door. "You're sure."

"_Yes_, I'm sure." He scoffed lightly. "Shit, Mello, do you honestly think I'd be that cruel? I wouldn't have come back if I thought I was already done for."

"I don't know what to think about you right now." The blond kept his hand on his gun. "You're jumpy. You act as if you've seen a ghost."

"You don't know what the fuck I've seen," the gamer spat viciously. "You were locked up safe and sound with a goddamn fucking _cat_ while those bastards had their filthy hands all over me."

Mello's lips pressed together in a tight line of fury. For the next several miles, the only sound was the static of the CB and the hum of the engine. Mello felt as if he were alone in the car, just drifting along as if he'd never stop, as if this dream could just go on forever and ever and the sun would sit there, hanging so pretty in the sky, bathing the world in it's stark, lonely whiteness.

Then, very quietly,

"Not now, Mello." Matt's voice was nothing more than a shuddering whisper. "Later, okay? Right now, I just...I-"

"Alright." Mello's hand reached over and clasped Matt's knee tightly. They passed by a road sign thanking them for visiting Los Angeles."It's alright. It's over now."

Matt took one cold, calloused hand from the steering wheel and closed it tightly over Mello's, shaking his head. "No, no, it's not."

LA may have met it's end, but their nightmare had only just begun.


End file.
